Carolina Gold (15 page)
He flopped into his chair, graceless as a puppet with broken strings, and opened the book. The room fell silent as the lessons progressed. At noon the girls shared their food with the boy, and afterward Charlotte began a grammar lesson.
At ten minutes before two, a horse and rig turned up the long avenue. Anne-Louise ran to the window and peered out. “Papa’s here.”
Marie-Claire tossed her writing pen aside and looked heavenward. “Thank you, dear Lord. Now maybe Tamar will make a real dinner for a change.”
Charlotte frowned. “She hasn’t been giving you proper meals?”
Marie-Claire shook her head. “Cornpone and beans all week long, though Papa left eggs and bacon and a pound of rice.” She waved one hand. “And I forget what else. Tamar said her son is sick and she didn’t have time to cook things that won’t keep. But she promised to make tea cakes when Papa comes home. Papa loves tea cakes.”
Charlotte frowned. She didn’t like the idea of the children having only makeshift meals. But perhaps Tamar’s son soon would be well.
Anne-Louise opened the door. Nicholas Betancourt came in, swept his youngest daughter off her feet, and twirled her around. He took off his hat and set it on her head. “How’s my fairy child?”
“I am very well, Papa. And how are you?”
He laughed and set her on her feet. “I see that Miss Fraser has succeeded in teaching you some of the social pleasantries.” He smiled at Charlotte over the little girl’s head.
She crossed the room to greet him. “I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”
“I didn’t get much satisfaction from the folks in Washington. There wasn’t any point in lingering.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would,” Anne-Louise said, “if there’s any cake to go with it.” She handed her father his hat and scampered away.
“Tea sounds lovely, but I came to fetch the girls. I promised to take them berry picking, and I think tomorrow we might have rain.” His looked past her shoulder into the library. “Who’s he?”
“Daniel Graves. He lives upriver. Walked down with the girls this morning.”
Nicholas frowned. “And you let him stay?”
“Marie-Claire asked me not to send him away. I’ve told him he cannot come back.”
“I should think not.”
“He’s very keen to learn.”
“I’m all for that. But he does seem older than the girls, and we know nothing of his family. I worry about my daughters.”
“As any father would. I do feel sorry, though, that the children around here lack a proper school.”
“That boy is not the only one. When I first got here last winter, I rowed upriver past Litchfield, nearly to Brookgreen, looking for boundary markers. Didn’t find a single one, but I saw plenty of people just barely scraping by.”
“Perhaps their lot will improve as rice production does.” She motioned to the girls to finish their lessons. “You were looking for the markers for your property?”
“Yes. Ever since I decided to settle here, I’ve been working on claiming legal title to my plantation. As I understand it, Willowood, Oatland, even this place were part of a barony going back to the early 1700s. My Huguenot ancestors were the original owners.”
“Of Fairhaven?” She shook her head. “I’m sure you’re mistaken about that. Our family has been in possession of this property for nearly a hundred years.”
“I don’t doubt it. But possession and ownership are not precisely the same. I assume you have a deed, or papers of some sort, to back up your claim.”
Her stomach clenched. “You are standing in my parlor, telling me that you own my land?”
“Papa?” Books in hand, Marie-Claire came into the hallway and gave him a paper. “Look what I did today. An essay . . . and a poem for you.”
He smoothed her hair and slipped the folded paper into his pocket. “I’ll read it at home when I have time to appreciate it properly. For now, you and your sister will kindly wait for me in the yard.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you fighting with Ma’m’selle?”
“Not at all. I’ll be there in a moment.” He pointed a finger at her. “I do want to talk to you about that strange boy.”
“He isn’t so strange,” Marie-Claire said. “He knows just about every song that has ever been written, and he knows more arithmetic than I do. And aren’t you always telling us we should be kind to others less fortunate?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “He walked all the way from Richmond Hill, and he hasn’t any shoes.”
She threw her father a stern glance before hurrying outside.
Nicholas turned his hat in his hands. “Forgive me if I’ve upset you. You may be right about your land. Other baronies in these parts were divided into parcels and sold. Perhaps mine was as well. But without any documents, we’ll never know. I wouldn’t want to invest in planting rice, only to discover it’s on someone else’s property. I doubt you would either.”
“Of course not.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice. He didn’t know she lacked a deed for Fairhaven. Perhaps one could be found before he—
“There must be a record of my property somewhere. If I
cannot find it here, I’m going back to New Orleans. General Longstreet has settled there. Our families were friends, and I served under him during the war.”
“As a physician?”
He gave a quick nod but didn’t elaborate. “I’m counting on his hospitality for a few days while I look into the matter there.”
“My father said boundary disputes were quite common when he was a young man. And were often quite unpleasant.”
“I have no wish to cause trouble, but I do need to settle the matter. I’ve written to a distant cousin in Languedoc. Eugenie must be past seventy now, but perhaps she knows where the records are.”
She saw him to the door, determined to remain calm. What good would it do to get upset? Besides, he had no proof of his claim either. “Enjoy your berry picking.”
“It’s early for blackberries, but the girls have their hearts set on an outing. If we find any, I’ll save you some.”
He climbed into the rig and drove away. She returned to the library to find Daniel still immersed in his book.
“School’s over,” she said.
He looked up and blinked. “Already?”
“Yes, it’s almost three, and you have a long walk home.”
He handed her the book. “Sure is a good story. Can I come back tomorrow and finish it?”
“I’m afraid not. And I must warn you not to go near the Betancourts’ place again.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have to cross their land. I can get here in my rowboat. They don’t own the river. Besides, bein’ poor don’t make you a bad character.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t. You’re a smart boy, Daniel. I hope one day you get a fine education as well as the boat you’re dreaming about. But I can’t take you on as a pupil.”
“Because he can pay you and my pa can’t.”
“That’s part of it, yes. But I plan to teach only until Mr. Betancourt can send his daughters to boarding school. I’m not really trained for it, and I have my plantation to run.”
“You won’t have it if he finds that land grant.”
“Daniel, it isn’t polite to eavesdrop.”
“I couldn’t help it.” He rose. “Guess I ought to go.”
He headed for the door, his shoulders drooping.
“Wait.” She caught up to him and handed him the book. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
“But—”
“It’s old and worn out. I doubt I’ll ever read it again. You may as well have it.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.”
She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, gathering her scattered thoughts. Turning away such an eager pupil had left her feeling unexpectedly unsettled and disappointed, but Nicholas Betancourt’s startling claim brought bewilderment and terror.
Nothing in her father’s will proved their ownership of Fairhaven. For more than a hundred years, her family’s right to it had never been questioned. But suppose Nicholas was right and his French cousin proved his claim?
Suppose Fairhaven was not hers after all?
H
at in hand, Jeremiah Finch leaned against the door frame and waited while Charlotte wrote a check for his services. She blotted the document and handed it to him.
He glanced at it before tucking it into his breast pocket. “Much obliged, Miss Fraser. I trust you’re pleased with my work.”
Through the library windows she studied the greening rice field in the distance. “I haven’t been to the field downriver this week. How is it faring?”
“Drained it yesterday. We’ll start the first hoeing as soon as it’s dry.” He scratched his head. “Gabe and Peter went home sick. Reckon I might have to find somebody to replace them to keep everything on schedule.”
“At church on Sunday Mrs. Clifton mentioned that one of Trim’s nephews has returned from upstate. Perhaps you could ask Trim about it.”
“Trim already told me.” The foreman shrugged. “The boy may show up, or he may not. There’s no telling these days. Everything’s all ajumble.”
“I wonder if you would consider hiring a young white boy. His name is Daniel Graves. He’s keen on getting an education, but he wants to earn money too. To buy a boat. He came here once with my pupils, and I—”
“Afraid not. I hired a couple of white men from Calais Plantation when I first got here, but it didn’t take long to figure out that blacks and whites can’t work together. Too many resentments and too many arguments. I spent all my time trying to keep ’em from each other’s throats. Wasn’t worth the aggravation.”
“I see.”
He frowned. “You worried about the boy?”
“I would like to help him if I can.”
“You say he wants education. Maybe you ought to expand that little school you’ve got going.” He indicated the pine table piled high with textbooks, maps, and the Betancourt girls’ latest artwork.
She shook her head. “I’m only helping out Mr. Betancourt temporarily.”
“Lambert said that Tamar told him Mr. Betancourt has left town again. Off on some business errand.”
“Yes.” The thread of fear that had wound itself around her heart since Nicholas Betancourt’s departure for New Orleans tied itself into a hard knot. He should have been back on Saturday. According to Marie-Claire, no one had heard from him. And the time was fast approaching when planters would pack up and leave for the seashore until the threat of yellow fever was past.
Just last night she had begun making a list of what she would take to the Pawley’s Island cottage and what would be left behind, at the mercy of thieves and the elements. Someone would have to look after dear Cinnamon. Charlotte hated the thought of leaving the little mare behind, but there was no shelter for her on the island.
Mr. Finch fished a paper from his pocket and thrust it into her
hands. “Almost forgot. I need some supplies to get my men through the season.”
Charlotte scanned the paper: a dozen bottles of sarsaparilla, two bottles of paregoric, three pounds of Epsom salts, two packages of German vermifuge, two ounces each of laudanum and quinine, three gallons of castor oil and coal tar. Below that list was another: broadaxes, hoes, handsaws, chisels, hatchets, and a hundred pounds of tobacco.
She looked up at him. “All this will cost a fortune.”
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon it will. But I can’t keep the men healthy and fix your broken equipment and bring in your crops without the right tools and supplies.” He shook his head. “I know it don’t seem right, you having to concern yourself with their welfare, providing medicines and such, when they don’t belong to you anymore. But those Yankees have the final say on the contracts, and they—”
“I understand.” She opened her bank book and wrote out a draft to Kaminski’s store.
“The tobacco is my idea. Keeps them happy, I reckon.” He tucked the bank draft into his pocket but made no move to leave.
She looked up. “Is there anything else?”
”I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.” He gestured toward the library shelves. “You’ve got a book of Byron’s poems over there, and I’m kinda partial to him. Would you consider lending it to me?”
“I noticed you carry a book of verse in your pocket.”
He blushed. “Walt Whitman. A present from my wife before I left North Carolina. She’s not much of a reader herself, but she figured I’d enjoy it.”
“Some people have said Mr. Whitman is a bit too—”
“Too frank?” He shrugged. “Maybe. But I like how he puts words together. Mary Susan said the poems might keep me from being so homesick, but I can’t say I’ve enjoyed any benefits in that regard.”
“I understand. I waited out two years of the war separated from my father. I missed him terribly.”
“Sometimes when I get to studyin’ on my wife and young’uns, it’s all I can do not to tuck tail and run.”
She took the book of poems from the shelf. “I hope this proves a good distraction. I’d be very upset if you went home before my rice is harvested, and I’m certain Mr. Hadley and Mr. Clifton feel the same way.”
He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door. “One more thing. I feel like I ought to apologize for the way I spoke to you when I first got here. You’ve been fair with me, and I can appreciate how hard you’re working to make a go of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Finch. Even though everything is different now, I still feel protective toward my father’s old bondsmen. Thomas especially.”